


Take Hold Of The Flame

by orphan_account



Series: Came For The Spark, Stayed For The Flame [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst, Dark Stiles, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Original Character Death(s), Pack, Telekinesis, Telepathic Bond, Temporary Character Death, Torture, True Alpha Scott McCall, Violence, Werewolf Hunters, pack bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles' bedroom was just as Derek had left it. Books lying on the ground, jeans hanging on the side of the chair, university pamphlets scattered on the bed. Except he had left it with Stiles buried in his pillows, swearing at him. But Stiles wasn't there."</p><p>Derek knew that his boyfriend was powerful. He knew that people wanted that power for themselves. What he hadn't anticipated, however, was how dangerous that power was when twisted to the Calavera's needs.<br/>*You need to read the first in the series to understand this one*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where Is Your Boy Tonight?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Okay, sequel to Came For The Spark, Stayed For The Flame. Probably going to be a short one. You're going to need to read the first one, but it's only, like, 15 chapters. Trigger warnings: there's a shitload of graphic violence in at least on chapter, torture and shit. Please don't read if it freaks you out, I don't want you feeling uncomfortable :) NZ grammar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title by Fall Out Boy. Okay, I know, I said maybe a few months and I'd get around to a sequel, but I couldn't resist!! I'm working two fics at once, though, so I can't be constant in my updates. I love all the comments, and the commenters!! :)

“Fuck off,” Stiles groaned into his pillow, throwing his shoe in the general direction of the window. He heard the muffled thump as Derek caught it, chuckling.

“Come on, Stiles. It's not that bad.”

“'tis. Leave.”

Derek grabbed Stiles by the waist and flipped him over. “I'm not leaving. This is far more entertaining.”

“I hate you,” Stiles croaked, sitting up and away from Derek. “This is a deal-breaker. I want out of this abusive relationship where you take pleasure in my discomfit.”

Derek's face went serious, but his eyes glittered. “I'm sorry, was that worth repeating? Because I didn't understand a word you just said.”

Stiles scowled at Derek. “Why you do torture me so? Why?” He wailed the last word, and Derek started laughing as his voice broke and squeaked. Stiles jabbed a finger in his chest. “I will sneeze on you, Derek Hale.”

Derek grabbed his hand and brushed his thumb over Stiles' wrist. “You'll get over it in a few hours. Besides,” he added, pushing up from the bed and letting Stiles' arm go, “It's your own fault.”

Stiles poked his tongue out at Derek as he walked out the door. “You're a terrible boyfriend. It's your fault that I had to take the bus, you ass. You'd better come back with flowers and chocolate and a well-rehearsed apology.”

Derek turned back with a smirk. “Or we could just have make-up sex,” he suggested. Stiles' heartbeat sped up and his mouth dropped open, but Derek was out of the door before he could form a comeback.

He was in no rush to get back to the loft. After the threat of the Alpha pack and the Siren had passed, Beacon Hills was peaceful. It'd been a few months, but Derek still couldn't get used to it. Stiles called it hypervigilance: casting wary looks at strangers, always looking over his shoulder, avoiding deserted areas. Stiles had reassured Derek that they were all going through it, adjusting to the peace. He'd been hyper-vigilant since Peter bit Scott, and the calm that had settled around Beacon Hills was suffocating him.

Derek read between the lines, figured out what Stiles was trying to say. That they all felt the itch, that unexplainable and guilty urge to go looking for a threat, to not wait around for the next death, the next enemy.

And when the next threat made itself known, Derek would've given anything to have the peace back, because the next threat wasn't against him, his three-person pack, Scott, or the town. It was focused on Stiles.

 

Once Derek got back to the loft, he was attacked by the smell of intense worry and panic. Allison and Chris stood in the middle of the spacious room, Cora pacing around them. Her head snapped up as soon as Derek opened the door.

“Why haven't you been answering your phone?” she snapped, in his face in an instant.

Derek took a step back. She looked livid. “It's dead,” he replied, eyes flitting over her tense jaw and furrowed eyebrows. “What's happened?”

Cora looked back at Chris and waved a hand for him to answer. He stepped forward calmly.

“We have news that the Calaveras are in town. They're a prestigious hunting family from Mexico. They came to observe Scott, since he ascended. They've found out about Stiles, what he can do, his abilities. The Calavera's contacted me about him half an hour ago, informed me that they-”

“They're going to take Stiles,” Allison interrupted hastily. “They said they can use him, as a weapon.”

Derek tensed, his stomach churning. “Did they say when?” He grabbed Cora's phone from her back pocket and dialled Stiles' number.

Allison shook her head, troubled. “They asked for our help. When we refused, they seemed in a hurry to hang up.”

Derek could hear Cora's heart beating loud and fast, but he tuned it out, focusing on the dial tone in his ear. It clicked into voicemail after a few tense moments.

Derek hung up and dropped the phone. His hands were shaking, and his vision was filling with red. He looked up at Cora, who looked as freaked out as he felt. “He's not answering.” He was aware how weak his voice sounded, but he didn't care because _Stiles wasn't answering_. “I saw him fifteen minutes ago.”

Chris was the only one seemingly unaffected by the situation. “Allison, keep ringing him. Cora, call Scott and the sheriff. Derek, you're with me.”

Derek nodded numbly, and followed Chris out of the loft, not caring that someone else was ordering him around, ordering the Alpha around, because it wasn't like he had a clear head anyway. He could hardly think over the constant stream of fear that was running through his mind, and the primal need to find Stiles, because _he always answered his phone_.When it woke him up, when he was in the shower, in the middle of sex (which led to an awkward conversation with Isaac that one time).

Derek was grateful that Chris was ignoring the speed limit, but he had to refrain from urging him to got faster.

Chris gave him a sideways glance. “You're in control?”

Derek nodded tightly. “Barely,” he gritted out, because Chris deserved to know that he was in a moving car with a wolf that could get set of at the slightest pressure.

Chris grunted. “I'm not one to give false hope, Derek. The Calaveras are ruthless hunters, and they've been looking for Flames for generations.”

Derek felt himself calm down, despite the topic of their discussion. “What do they do with them?”

Chris hesitated for a moment, and Derek listened out for a lie. “They force them to go darkside, keep a leash on them, use them as their own personal attack dogs.” Steady heartbeat.

The car was too restricting, too small, and Derek felt his claws itching to come out, to claw out of the metal trap and find Stiles.

“How do they force them?” Because apparently Derek was a masochist.

Chris pulled into Stiles' street. “Torture.”

Derek ripped open the door before Chris could pull into the Stilinski driveway, and was at the door before the car stopped.

“Stiles?” he called out, sprinting up the stairs. “ _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles' bedroom was just as he had left it. Books lying on the ground, jeans hanging on the side of the chair, university pamphlets scattered on the bed. Except he had left it with Stiles buried in his pillows, swearing at him. But Stiles wasn't there.

And neither was his scent. There wasn't any fear, or panic, or magic. No grounding, earthly smell mixed with spice and old books. It was as if he had never lived there at all.

Derek heard the distant roar of an anguished Alpha, and answered with his own.

 

Stiles scowled and tugged at the cuffs encircling his wrists. They were cutting him off from his power, and he felt empty and weak without it. “You know, my boyfriend is an Alpha. And my best friend is a True Alpha,” he said conversationally to no one in particular.

He was in a van, of course. The kidnap-abetting vehicle of the century.

There was a mesh divider between the back of the van and the front seats, where two well-built men sat, ignoring him.

“Of course, you already knew that, didn't you? You've been watching us since the eclipse, and out of two Alphas, two betas, and a fucking Siren, you thought _I_ was the bigger threat?” Stiles frowned. “Or am I bait? Ah, no, I don't like that idea.”

“You should've gagged him,” one guy muttered. Mexican.

Stiles filed away the accent and focused on his train of thought. Suddenly a very bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “Of course. You're the Calaveras. I've read about you. You're the number one threat to the Flames, aren't you? You-” A sick feeling washed over him, because he knew exactly what they wanted him for. “You 're going to...”

One man chuckled. “Know what we're going to do to you, _llamita_?”

Stiles swallowed down the first real threads of fear and didn't reply, he didn't want to hear the answer, he didn't want it confirmed.

“We're going to slice you up so nicely, you'll be begging for the chance to rip apart your _boyfriend_ ,” the other guy sneered.

Stiles reached through the pack-bond, which he didn't do often, desperately trying to seek comfort from Derek and Cora's presence. He didn't like how Derek and Cora could read his emotions so easily, so he shut it off most of the time, but sitting in a cold, hard van floor, arms cuffed behind his back and two hunters twice the size of him made him feel completely alone.

The emotions hit him at full force, and he struggled to keep in a telling gasp. There was fear, anger, desperation, and it was thick and heavy and completely overwhelming.

Derek and Cora were freaking out, and Stiles didn't know if he should've been relieved that they had noticed his absence so soon, or worried that they were so worked up about it.

He tried to clamp down his emotions, trying to calm them as much as he could. It was exhausting, but it was the only thing keeping him from freaking out like them. He could focus on comforting them, at least.

Stiles tried to ignore the presence of the hunters and leaned his head against the cool metal of the side of the van, wishing that he could speak to his pack, instead of sending them vague emotions.

He wanted Scott next to him. He never did anything without Scott, and, as selfish as it was, he knew that his best friend next to him would lessen the severity of the situation. He wanted Lydia, because she was smart enough to figure out a way to get free. He wanted Cora, because she was fierce enough to rip their throats out given the slightest chance. Isaac would freak out in an enclosed space, and probably rip a hole in the vehicle. His dad might not have been able to do much, but he would've known how to handle the situation.

Stiles wouldn't have wanted Derek next to him. He'd be a comfort, sure, but Stiles wasn't sure if he needed comfort as much as being alert. He'd worry about Derek, get distracted trying to protect him. No, he didn't want Derek there, he wanted to be where Derek was, not kidnapped by goddamned torture-happy Mexican hunters with a bloody reputation generations long.

“So, since there's no hope of escape, I don't suppose you'd entertain me with a villainous monologue?” Stiles joked, thankful that his speedy healing had gotten rid of his cold, because that would've just summed up how bad his week had been.

One of the hunters snorted. “Not a chance.”

Stiles whined. “Come on, I want the full experience, since I'm going to be in agonising pain soon.”

There was an amused chuckle. Maybe he could win them over with his charm and wit, make them trust him, make them feel sorry for him and let him go. It was a far-fetched hope, but he was willing to grab onto anything for a distraction.

The hunters didn't reply though, and they spent the rest of the drive in silence, which was perfect for formulating a plan. But, by the time the car stopped, his mind was blank, his concentration focused on calming his pack-members. He wasn't sure if he was making it worse or not.

The van door was pulled open, and giant hands yanked him out, pushing him into the ground.

Stiles spat out a mouthful of leaves and looked around. Still in California, in a forest. There was an abandoned house that vaguely reminded him of the Hale house, except it was significantly smaller and more wholesome. Just abandoned, not burned.

The two hunters yanked him to his feet and pulled him towards the house. Stiles decided to give them the full kidnapper experience, and struggled to get free, even though he knew it was a lost cause. He had no idea where he was, and he could spot the surveillance cameras set up in the trees, so he guessed they'd find him pretty quickly, if he even managed to get through two beefy hunters.

They swerved from the house and opened a basement door at the side of the garage, and pushed Stiles down the steps.

Stiles stumbled over his own feet and fell the rest of the way, steps and railings jabbing into his shoulder. The doors shut after him, and he stood shakily, his hands still cuffed behind his back. The light hanging from the ceiling provided a low light, but it was luminous enough to reveal a sight that set Stiles' stomach flipping.

A dentist' chair, just like the one from San Diego, with leather straps and buckles with wards carved into the metal. Dried blood clung onto the straps, and a bloodied clump of hair hung from the armrest.

Stiles stumbled to the other side of the dank, cold cellar, and threw up.

 

Everyone was in Derek's loft, and they had to leave. They had to get out of there, they had to let him tear a new hole in the wall, to rip his mattress to shreds, to punch something, to run.

But as soon as Lydia had walked in, she put a hand on his arm and gave him a look, which was agonisingly like Stiles' look, the one that said _I'm not putting up with any of your shit, Hale_.

Her eyes softened a fraction, and she drew him into a hug. Derek would've been surprised, but ever since he and Stiles had gotten together, he had become a lot more comfortable with physical contact. Mainly because he was always initiating it. A hand on his arm, a brush of fingertips on his cheek in passing, a cheeky slap on the ass.

When Scott tore through the door, his eyes were wide and half-crazed, and Derek wondered if he looked the same, because Scott looked _wrecked_.

“Where is he?” he asked Derek, his voice broken. Derek only managed to shake his head.

Chris cleared his throat. “What we know already, is that he's been taken by the Calaveras. Araya is the head of the Calavera family, and her son Severo has been in Beacon Hills since the eclipse.”

Scott's eyes widened. “ _What_? Why didn't you tell us?”

“I only found out a few hours ago, when I got the call about Stiles. They were hoping I'd help them. I refused, and they must've taken Stiles immediately after. I have a list of known safe houses they use, but they would've anticipated me warning you and used one I don't know about.”

Lydia was shaking, and Derek caught her eyes. He took a deep breath, and braced himself for the answer to the question he was dreading asking her. “Lydia... do you feel anything?”

She closed her eyes. “Not death,” she mumbled. “But... something dark. Something unknown. It's hovering around Stiles.” She was silent for a bit more, before wincing. “There's something else. I can't describe it. But it's evil. It's like looking into a void.” Her voice was hushed and scared. She whimpered and opened her eyes, which were shining with unshed tears. “Something's going to happen to him, he's going to change.”

Chris nodded. “The Calaveras torture Flames, twist them into their own weapon. They force them to give in to their darker urges.”

Lydia shook her head. “No, that's not what I felt. This... this is something new. Something terrifying.”

Derek reached through the pack-bond. Stiles had unblocked it an hour ago, and since then had only been calm and soothing (apart from that brief moment of pure horror an hour ago), but Derek could feel the underlying tension. It still comforted him, Stiles' presence, so he let it soothe him before speaking again. “We need to find him. Split up and scope out these safe houses. Isaac, you've got the best nose. You need to try and pick up a scent.” He was trying to take back control of the situation, before it slipped through his fingers.

Isaac nodded, and looked to Scott for confirmation, because Derek wasn't his Alpha. Scott grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door. “I'll go too.” Derek didn't protest. It looked like Scott needed to be with his anchor, needed to be doing something.

Cora looked to him. “What about the rest of us?”

Derek nodded to Chris. “Show us where these safe houses are.”

Chris laid out a few maps on the table and started talking.

 

It was scary how much waiting for torture reminded him of getting sent to the principal's office at school.

The hunters kept him sweating for a few hours, over thinking what kind of torture they'd have planned for him, the imagination he was usually so proud of betraying him with images of broken fingers and missing teeth. Okay, maybe not such a great imagination, but he was trying to reign it in.

They opened to basement doors at midday, which Stiles was judging only by the heat of the sun pouring from the filthy window.

He couldn't hold in his dread, and he felt it leaking through the pack-bond, despite his best efforts. Stiles had spent all morning soothing his pack mates, and he could pick out Derek's emotions from Cora's. He wished he couldn't, because knowing how hard Derek was trying to stay in control was hurting him.

The hunters had matching sneers, and Stiles let out a sigh. He twitched his head at the one on the right. “I'm calling you Tybalt, because your hair is really, _really_ greasy. Seriously, do you even shower? Jeez.” He looked at the left one. “You're... Smeagol. Because you have, like, seriously creepy eyes. They're all...” Stiles blew air out of his cheeks and shrugged.

Tybalt grinned wider, and, before Stiles could even contemplate backing away, a closed fist slammed against the back of his head.

He spun around and felt his ears ringing as he fell to the ground. He tried to keep his pain away from the pack-bond, because they'd feel it straight away, but all the concentration and breath left him as soon as a steel-capped boot thudded into his ribs.

He curled into himself and took little solace of the fact that if he didn't have those damn cuffs on, they'd be choking on their own blood.

The pain demanded all of his focus, and he tried to keep the little gasps of pain to a minimum, but when the boot started on his head, he let them out as choked screams.

He felt his vision cloud like the vignetting on an old-time photo, and he heard, in the back of his mind, the roar of his pain, of the blood rushing through his veins and out of his skin.

But, the longer he held into consciousness (out of stubbornness, even though his bones were screaming for him to pass out), the clearer the roar got.

It wasn't a roar of rushing blood. It was Derek's roar, in the back of his mind, and he knew he was imagining it, because Derek was in Beacon Hills and Stiles was curled on the floor of a damp basement of an abandoned house in a forest in the middle of who-the-fuck-knows-where.

_Stiles!_

Stiles tried to keep his eyes open.

 


	2. Here Comes The Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title by Slayer. Yeah, "llamita" means flame in Spanish. And, uh, comments are appreciated :D I seriously love them, and, in turn, you guys. And, yeah, applause for multiple POVs!!

Sheriff Stilinski stormed into Derek Hale's loft with intentions leaning more towards violence, but he stopped when he took in the scene in front of him.

Cora and Derek were in the far corner of the loft, gripping their heads and growling in anguish. Allison and Chris hovered, their self-preservation stopping them from attempting to comfort the two werewolves. Lydia looked shaken, but relieved when the sheriff stepped in.

“What's happening to them?” he asked, his hand twitching away from his gun, the one he had loaded with wolfsbane bullets. Or rather, _Stiles_ had loaded with wolfsbane bullets.

John forced the lump in his throat back down and looked to Lydia for an explanation.

She shook her head. “I don't know,” she answered in a weak, shaky voice. “They just freaked out. Won't let us go near them.”

Chris gave John a short nod, and kept his wary eyes on the near-feral Hales. After a few tense moments, where John was seriously considering bolting out of there because _his son was missing_ , and his pack-mates were having a mental breakdown instead of finding him, Cora lifted her head, her growl shifting into a light whimper. She tucked herself closer to Derek, whose eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

“Derek,” she whispered hoarsely. “Derek, come on.” She licked her lips and cleared her throat, sparing the rest of the room a brief glance before turning back to her brother. “Derek, block it out. It's stopped.”

John watched in fascination as Cora coaxed Derek back to the land of the sane, and Derek finally looked away from his sister and turned his red eyes straight on John.

John had driven the whole way to Derek's loft in anger and frustration, and he had been meaning to take it out on his son's boyfriend, his son's Alpha. Derek was meant to protect him, he was meant to lay down his life for the man who had done the same for him over and over. But Stiles was gone, and John had blamed Derek as soon as he got the phone call from Scott.

But one look at Derek's pained, feral expression, and John felt the blame melt away. Because it was the exact same expression he'd seen on Stiles when he asked when his mother was coming home, right before John had to inform his only son that his mother wasn't going to make it back from the hospital.

“It was him,” Derek said, pushing up from the floor on unsteady feet. “He'd told me that he... that he was working on something with Deaton. A telepathic bond.” He cast a look at his sister, who looked like she was about to pass out. “He got through.”

John may not have been very quick on the uptake when it came to the supernatural, but it wasn't hard to figure out. “What happened?” he asked, the question tasting bitter in his mouth.

Derek clenched his jaw and turned away, a move John hadn't seen since he and Stiles got together. He didn't answer.

“Pain,” Cora whimpered, coming up behind her brother and putting her hand on his shoulder. “They've started.”

“Started what?” John demanded, looking from the Hales to the hunters and the banshee. “What aren't you telling me? What's happening to my son?”

Lydia took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped at the tear trails down her cheeks. And she told him everything.

 

Stiles woke up still strapped to the chair, Tybalt and Smeagol no where in sight. He could already feel himself healing from the slicing and dicing on his arm, and the way they traced the triskele on his chest.

His head pounded with a dull, muted ache, and he watched the blood stream down his arm, slowing down as he healed. He never noticed just how red his blood was, like a deep red. It'd be beautiful if it didn't make him sick.

But, despite the pounding headache, his mind felt open. Roomy, expanded. He took in a deep breath and winced as it pulled at a scar on his chest. Stiles had read that the more pain and wounds a druid endured, the faster their healing got. So, practise made perfect.

It obviously wasn't a comfort. Shorter healing periods meant shorter gaps between Tybalt and Smeagol's visits.

_Stiles? Derek, I feel stupid doing this. He can't hear me._

Stiles' eyes shot open. He wasn't even aware that they had shut. “Hello?” he called out tentatively. “Is anyone there?” Silence answered him. “Cora?”

It was stupid, because Cora was in Beacon Hills, and Stiles was... somewhere. He really needed to find out where he was.

But it was unmistakably Cora's voice, and he had heard it. Maybe a little muffled, but loud in his mind.

_In his mind._

Stiles almost laughed, but he knew it would hurt like a bitch for his bruised/broken ribs. He had finally done it. He was a little annoyed that all that mental straining was wasted, when all it took to establish a telepathic bond between his pack was a shitload of pain.

_Cora?_

Relief hit him, sharp and sweet, and he welcomed it. _Stiles! Oh, my god, Stiles, Stiles, are you okay? Stiles?_

Stiles did laugh this time, lightly, because he didn't know if Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum were listening. _Cora. I'm fine._

He could feel her annoyance and concern flood through, and grinned weakly. _Don't bullshit me, Stilinski. I... I could feel it._

_Feel what?_

_What they were doing to you. Derek could as well. It was horrible._

Stiles let in a harsh breath. _Is Derek okay? Why isn't he talking to me? Or, well, thinking?_ He wasn't going to get over talking to someone without actually _talking_ to them. Out loud. He could still hear the inflection in her voice, her tone rising and falling with expression.

_I told him to shut it off. He... He wasn't dealing, Stiles. He almost went feral._

“Shit,” Stiles croaked out loud. He never would've established the telepathic bond if he'd known the effect it would have on his pack mates, but he didn't have a choice at the time, and he wasn't sure if he could shut it off. If he wanted to. Because maybe it was selfish, but he didn't want to endure what he was inevitably going to endure by himself.

_Stiles?_

_I'm here_ , Stiles replied, tuning back into the conversation.

_He wants to talk to you now._

Stiles smiled sadly, even though no one could see it. He shifted in his seat, hissing as it pulled at his injuries. _Okay._

When Derek opened up to the bond, Stiles was hit with a clusterfuck of emotions that he wasn't sure he could handle. Frustration, guilt (which was seriously uncalled for), anger, sorrow, panic.

 _Stiles,_ Derek choked out, his mind-voice (Stiles didn't know what else to call it) cautious.

 

 _Derek,_ Stiles answered, his voice sending shivers down Derek's spine, and an ache that made him want to howl. _I need you to calm down, Derek._

Derek let out a wolf-like whine, blocking out everyone else in the car. The sheriff, Allison, Cora, Scott, and Derek were scoping out the nearest Calavera safe house, and the drive was about as tense as it could get.

 _Stiles, where the hell are you?_ Derek asked, frantic. Scott cast him a wary glance, which he ignored.

 _Derek, come on, calm down. Derek, Der-bear, honey boo. Shhh._ Derek closed his eyes and let Stiles' voice wash over him.

 _Don't call me honey boo ever again,_ Derek replied weakly. _Where are you?_

He could almost hear Stiles' weary sigh. _I don't know. The basement of an abandoned house in the middle of the woods. Somewhere. Not even sure if I'm still in Cali._

 _I'm going to kill them,_ Derek snarled, his claws lengthening around the steering wheel.

 _Derek, calm the fuck down,_ Stiles said, a little annoyance creeping into his voice. Or whatever it was. Derek had never been so glad to hear it. _You and Cora are freaking me out._

Derek could still feel the tug of insistent pain through the pack-bond, and he gritted his teeth. _What did they do to you?_

 _Nothing I can't handle,_ was Stiles' casual reply.

 _What did they do?!_ Derek pressed angrily. Chris glance at his claws and gave him a pointed look.

 _You don't want to know!_ Stiles answered, reciprocating Derek's anger. _Just, drop it, Derek._

“Is he okay?” Scott asked, breaking the silence that had descended over the car, that Derek hadn't even noticed.

“Yeah,” came Derek's gruff reply, wanting to block out the rest of them and focus on driving and talking to Stiles.

 _Sorry,_ he said. _I don't want to fight, but I don't... I can't let you know. I just want to talk to you._

Derek took a deep breath and let his claws blunt into normal fingernails. _No, I'm sorry._

There was a comfortable silence between them for a few more minutes, where Scott had figured he wanted some peace and Stiles was just there, a presence in his head, comforting him. _Tell me a story,_ he demanded, needed Stiles' voice, because it was the next best thing.

He didn't know how it was possible, but he felt Stiles' breathy laughter in his mind. _Did I tell you about that time Scott and I got a restraining order?_

 _Yes,_ Derek replied dryly. _Tell me something that doesn't involve Jackson Whittemore._

_Okay... what about that time Scott got beaten up by bullies, so I pranked them for a whole month? During Halloween?_

Derek let himself smile a little, and relaxed in his seat, letting Stiles speak over him and trying his best to ignore the pain that came with every sentence.

 

Stiles had just moved on to one of the memories of his mother, the good memories that he only shared with Derek when they were lying in bed, tracing patterns on each other with their fingertips and breathing in sync, when the hunters came back.

 _Stiles?_ Derek asked, sensing his panic.

 _It's fine,_ Stiles replied. _I just gotta, uh, stop talking for a few._

 _No!_ Derek sounded freaked out. _Don't stop. Don't stop talking,_ please _._

The realisation that Stiles talking to Derek not only grounded him, but Derek as well, came at him, and he shut his eyes. _Never thought I'd hear you say that._

“You ready for more, _llamita_?” Tybalt asked, cocking his head to the side with a nasty grin.

Stiles swallowed down his fear. _I'll talk later._ He shut off the connection before Derek could say something that would make him keep it open. Derek would help him through his, just his voice, whether it was soothing or angered or frantic. But he couldn't do that to Derek.

Stiles blocked off the pack-bond so Derek and Cora wouldn't feel what he was about to go through.

His control slipped once he'd lost count of the slashed in his arm and the burns in his chest. The smell of his own burning flesh made him want to vomit, and he almost did, but the smirks on Tybalt and Smeagol's faces stopped him.

He couldn't cut off the pack-bond again, not as weak and pain-riddled as he was, but he pushed it back and focused on trying not to leak as much pain.

When they got started on his face, that's when things got panic-attack-worthy. They by-passed his eyes and mouth, thankfully, and they wouldn't actually cut off a vital limb or something because “they liked their attack dogs nice and pretty”, and Stiles was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to grow another nose.

But they cut deep, into his forehead, little crude symbols they didn't mind showing him in the mirror. Swastika, the Christian cross. The triskele.

The horrible thing was, while he could scream, he couldn't move around. His arms and legs and torso were strapped tightly to the chair, leaving him jerking around but unable to move.

Tybalt grinned at him, his face smeared with Stiles' blood those times he needed to wipe away the sweat on his forehead. Stiles felt a surge of territorial annoyance. It was _his_ blood, Tybalt had no right to wear it on his face like a fucking mask.

Smeagol started laughing suddenly, sliding the knife across his skin once, deeply, before leering over at him. “Yeah, that's right, _llamita_. You look like you're going to be nice and easy to crack.”

Stiles let out another cry of pain as the knife bit into his shoulder again, sliding underneath his skin. The pain was unbearable, and the sting of humid air against his raw skin making him want to itch and scream and scratch.

“I... Just... Shut up,” Stiles bit out, his shoulder twisting around the knife. Tybalt laughed and pressed the hot poker deeper into his chest, and Stiles forgot everything but the white-hot pain and the laugh that resonated through his mind.

His power, if it could have emotions, was angry. It rose like a tidal wave, but he pushed it down. He could feel is bucking against him, trying to take over, to stop the pain.

But that was what the hunters wanted. He knew that he couldn't give in so soon, he'd seen disgustingly vivid drawing of the mutilated bodies of Flames that hadn't survived the torture. He knew that what they were doing to him was nothing compared to what they were going to do.

Three hours later, when Stiles had passed out from the pain ten times over and the hunters had given up for the day, he woke up sticky and exhausted, the pull of his fresh wounds distracting him from the memory of the last time he woke up like that, because the last time he woke up like that, he was in Derek's arms, not held down by warded leather straps and covered in blood.

As soon as he mustered the strength, he shut off the pack-bond, and let himself sleep.

 

Chris had taken over driving as soon as the pain rolled off Derek and Cora in intense waves that almost gave Scott a panic attack. He knew it was Stiles, what else could it be?

Derek and Cora huddled in the backseat, not as affected by it as they apparently were before. Allison took the front seat, and Scott was left to try and comfort the siblings. He pulled a little of the pain away from Cora before he felt light-headed and had to stop.

Scott watched the pain in Cora's expression as she fought through it, and murmured to Derek to shut it off. But, for some masochistic reason, Derek refused.

It hurt Scott more than he'd admit, like a hollowness in his stomach, because whatever the Hales were going through, Stiles was worse off. His healing wasn't as fast, and he wasn't used to torture and pain as much as Derek. Though, if Scott had to guess, he's say that Derek's pain was more psychological than anything.

After two hours of driving, they arrived at the nearest safe house. Scott shook his head before they went in. “Not here,” he muttered.

Chris nodded at him, but didn't stop. “We'll check anyway.”

They stayed close together, and quiet. Scott couldn't help but imagine how Stiles would act in this situation. He'd grin and make a joke, ease the tension. Stay close and comfort the wolves with slight touches of the hand, knowing how physical contact eased them.

The sheriff, Lydia, and Isaac had gone in the other direction, towards another safe house a state over. Scott couldn't help but feel as though they were scrambling in the opposite direction, and that by the time they'd figured out where he was, Stiles would be gone. It'd be too late.

Allison gave Scott a small smile, one that still tugged at Scott's chest.

“If he... He'd figure it out. If he was here...” He choked on a breath and hung his head, catching sight of Derek in his peripheral vision doing the same.

Allison grabbed him in a tight hug. “We'll find him, and we'll make them pay, Scott,” she mumbled against his neck.

Scott nodded and broke away from the hug, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialling Isaac's number with shaking hands.

“ _Scott?_ ”

Scott released a painful breath and relaxed substantially on hearing Isaac's voice. “Isaac,” he breathed. “Anything?”

“ _No. We've already headed back to Beacon Hills. Lydia's got an idea._ ”

“What is it?” Scott could feel the tendrils of hope. Lydia was the next best thing to having Stiles. Smarter than him, maybe without the drive and determination and ingenuity that came naturally with a Stilinski.

The air whooshed through the receiver for a second, and he could hear Isaac's indignant “ _hey!_ ” before Lydia's voice cut in. “ _Put me on speaker._ ”

Scott did as she said, and everyone in the room paused to listen.

“ _Now, the Calavera's wouldn't have been able to cross the border with Stiles. Rule that out. Not in California state, because a prestigious hunting family like them wouldn't be that stupid. It would be a state close by, though. Nevada, Arizona, Oregon. Each state has at least one pretty territorial hunting family. From what Allison's told me, the Campbells are pretty hostile with the Calaveras, and they take over most of Arizona and some of California._ ”

Chris tilted his head to the side. “There's a group of hunters, not exactly a family, who are friendly with the Calaveras. They take up Oregon territory.”

“Can you get in touch with them?” Derek asked, breaking his silence for the first time in hours.

Chris nodded. “They owe Gerard a favour, so I'll collect.”

“ _So, should we rendezvous at the clinic and come up with a plan, or are we just going to go in, guns blazing, and hope for the best?_ ” The sheriff asked over the phone, tense worry colouring his tone.

Everyone in the room had their eyes on Scott, something he was just starting to get used to since Ascending. Although Derek and Cora looked curious more than submissive, which didn't bother Scott. He didn't ask to be a True Alpha, and he was a little disappointed that, when he healed Derek, he didn't lose it. It was overwhelming with everyone relying on him, and making decisions without Stiles there to guide him made it infinitely harder.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. We'll meet at Deatons.” He ended the call and made his way back to the car, feeling just that little bit better that he was a step closer to finding his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the italics are confusing :/


	3. Who Are You Really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some Stiles/Derek feelings. Chapter title from Mikky Ekko. And, guys, your comments make me so happy, seriously, I'm enough of a woman to admit that I may have squeaked. Haha, so, I remind you that this is a short story compared to the first one, under 10 chapters (don't quote me on that though).

Stiles woke up an hour later. His sleeping was disrupted by his healing process, which was still slow-going. The scars on his face had healed completely, and the burns on his chest had faded into red, shiny marks on his skin.

He took a deep breath and wriggled his aching muscles within the confines of the leather straps. It flared pain across every inch of his body, and he bit his lip so he wouldn't cry out, more out of self-preservation instincts than anything. He didn't want Tybalt and Smeagol hearing him and coming back down.

It was night, that much was obvious. He could feel the pull of the moon, startled to realise it was a full one. Stiles was starting to lose track of time. He didn't know if he'd been there a day or a week, since the only way he measured the passing of time were the play-dates with the hunters (and pain immediately slowed everything down so that a minute felt like an hour), and his pitiful naps. He could've slept for a day, and he wouldn't know.

Stiles tentatively reached through the pack-bond to find Derek resting in an uneasy and painful sleep, and Cora's worry and panic. He was worried as well. Derek never slept on the full moon.

_Cora?_

_Stiles! You're okay,_ she exclaimed in relief.

_Yeah, I'm good. How is he?_

Cora mentally sighed. _He passed out. I blocked the pain out after a few minutes, but he couldn't. No, he_ wouldn't.

Stiles sucked in a harsh breath, the guilt hitting him harder than those kicks to his head.

_It's not your fucking fault you got kidnapped, Stiles. Stop it._

_Stop what?_ Stiles asked innocently. _I'm not doing anything._

_Look, he's going to want to talk to you. I'll wake him._

Stiles tensed against the straps around his biceps. _Nah, I'll do it._

Cora tuned out, and Stiles was left with the sound of Derek's heart beating fast in his mind. The telepathic bond was getting stronger, and he should be relieved, but Stiles was freaked out. Because the more pain he endured, the more powerful he got, and the more powerful he got, the closer he got to becoming the Calavera's personal attack dog.

_Derek._

_Nnngg._

_Derek. Der. Sweet heart. Honey boo._

_Don' call me that,_ Derek slurred sleepily. It brought a smile to Stiles' lips, reminding him how long he had gone without grinning. Or laughing. It was unnatural for him.

_Come on, lovey. Cupcake. Sweet cheeks. Wake up. I wanna talk._

He could feel Derek waking up slowly, and then his emotions caught up with him.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathed, clenching his fists. Derek was one emotionally-repressed dude, if he woke up like that every morning. At first, when Stiles was talking (or whatever) to him, he felt contentment and affection, maybe a little annoyance. Then, as he woke, sorrow slammed into Stiles. Sorrow, loneliness, guilt.

Stiles really needed to address that guilt. _Dude. Derek. Hey,_ he said softly.

_Stiles. Are you okay?_

Stiles snorted out loud. _I'm in one piece. You?_

Derek ignored him. _Stiles... what were they doing to you?_

Stiles closed his eyes against the dim, invasive light of the basement. _Nothing I can't handle. You've probably been through worse._

Derek didn't agree with him, but he didn't disagree. Stiles knew it was true, because hunters specialised in “experimenting” on werewolves' pain tolerance because “hey, they can just heal and we can start all over again”.

It made Stiles sick that he was going through it as well.

 _I... I'm going to find you,_ Derek promised. _I swear, Stiles, I will find you._

Stiles felt hot tears track down his face, mixing salt with blood. _I know. How's Dad?_

There was a brief hesitation. _Better than I expected._

_Good. Make sure he eats healthy._

Stiles could almost feel Derek's eyes roll. _Of course._ There was another pause. _Status report?_ he asked reluctantly, as if he was afraid of the answer.

And Stiles was done being strong, because why should he be strong when he was the one going through the torture, facing a future of either death or enslavement, enslavement to murder at anyone's command. So he told him, even though it made his stomach lurch at how it would've made Derek feel to hear his injuries. _I'm healing. Burns on my chest, hot poker, you know. My fingernails are growing back, slowly. My shoulder is repairing itself, and the swastika carved into my forehead has pretty much disappeared, I think, but I can't actually physically look at my forehead, so I wouldn't know, but it feels like-_

 _Stiles!_ Derek interrupted, his mind-voice thingy full of horror.

Stiles bit his lip guiltily. It wasn't fair to dump it all on Derek, not when it was hurting him. _I'm sorry, I just, I needed to- I mean, I didn't want-_

 _Stiles, breathe._ Derek's voice was a soothing contrast to the horror and panic he was leaking through the pack-bond. And the primal, raw anger that shouldn't have comforted Stiles, but did. The concern brought to attention the fact that Stiles was having a panic attack.

_Oh god, Derek, I can't... I can't stop, I just..._

_Stiles, just breathe. Slowly. Focus on my voice._

Stiles slowed down the breaths that got hitched in his throat to the point that he was gasping, but he kept slowing them down until he could finally take a deep lungful of air, listening to Derek talk him through it like he'd done it a million times before.

_You okay?_

Stiles gulped down another breath. _I love you, you know._

 _I know. I love you too._ It should've been nice to hear, but all Stiles could focus on was the fact that Derek wasn't saying it to his face, he wasn't murmuring it just as he woke up next to Stiles in the morning or in the middle of the night, with his face pressed against Stiles' neck. Derek was home, and Stiles was in a basement, and Stiles was starting to wonder if he's ever get to hear the words from Derek's mouth again.

 _It's our six month anniversary next week,_ Stiles said.

_I know._

_Yeah, well, smart ass, I was planning a very romantic dinner. Did you know that?_

_Dinner?_

_Yeah. Between all the sex and the hot making out and sweaty groping in my living room, we never go on dates._

Derek was confused, and Stiles bit back a laugh. _I don't go on dates, Stiles._ It sounded more like a question.

_You do now. I want everyone in town to know that I'm boning a Greek god._

_I wish you were here,_ Derek replied softly.

_Yeah. It's not exactly the Ritz in here. I'm starting to wonder when I'm going to develop my phobia of basements._

_You fucking wuss. Who develops a phobia of rooms?_ The insult sounded desperate, and Stiles knew that Derek was just trying to distract himself, trying to snatch back what had become normal these past few months for them both.

_Hey! There's a phobia of getting peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, mister,_ Stiles replied indignantly. _It's called_ _Arachibutyrophobia._

_How the hell do you memorise this?_

_I'm a special kind of smart. How are you? You know, with the full moon and everything?_

Derek paused for a few seconds. _It's hard without you._

_You're such a fucking whiner._

_You're insufferable._

_Shut up, you love it._ Stiles sighed inwardly. _Get some sleep. You're exhausted. And... they'll be back soon._

Derek's anger flared up, and Stiles flinched. _How long do you get between... between the..._

_Visits? A few hours. I think. I can't keep track._

_I want to be there for you._

Stiles gripped the arm rest and tapped his fingers in a rhythm that seemed vaguely familiar. _I know. But you can't. It hurts you. I'll block you and Cora out better this time_.

Derek was panicking. _Stiles, how long until you-_

 _-go darkside?_ Stiles thought about lying, but Derek deserved to know. They all deserved to know. _Not much longer. Maybe a day?_

Shit _, Stiles. Where are you?!_

Stiles wanted to brush his tears away. They were tickling his skin, leaving a hot trail across his face. He wanted to sit up, he wanted to stretch out his legs and run and sleep in his own bed. He wanted to play video games with Scott and lie on Derek's couch watching poorly-written and slightly-offensive sitcoms with his boyfriend. He wanted to spar with Cora and argue about burgers with his father and talk chemistry with Lydia and _not be strapped to a chair waiting to be tortured._

Stiles could hear Tybalt and Smeagol's heavy footsteps above him. _Tell my Dad I love him. Tell everyone I love them. Except Peter. Ew._

_Stiles, don't go._

_I have to. I hear them coming. I'll talk later, okay? Just, block it out._

Stiles cut the connection and leaned into the chair, just as the basement doors opened to reveal a tiny, wrinkled woman with a cruel twist to her mouth. Stiles had no doubt she was every bit as dangerous, or more, as Tybalt and Smeagol. He'd learnt not to underestimate people when Gerard had spent a good hour beating him senseless.

“Who the fuck are you?” Stiles bit out savagely, his voice hoarse from screaming.

The woman glanced back at the men. “He doesn't look like much. Pretty, though.” Tybalt barked out a laugh.

“Who are you?” Stiles repeated.

The woman turned back to him. “Araya Calavera. And you're Stiles Stilinski, our new _dog_.” The words sounded foul in her mouth, which was twisting into a cruel leer.

“I'm not your anything,” Stiles snarled, straining against the straps in a gesture of rebellion more than an effort to get free. “You psychotic bitch. Let me go!”

Araya smirked. “You're close to breaking, aren't you? You've actually lasted longer than I expected.”

“ _I don't care!_ ” Stiles roared. “You can't go turning teenagers into killers! You can't turn me into a killer! I'll kill _myself_ first!”

Tybalt crossed his arms smugly. “His eyes were black for a half an hour at one point.”

Araya nodded. “So, he's ready.” The words sank into Stiles' mind and latched on, a sick weight that made him want to throw up. That pressure that agreed with her, that goaded her on, rose to the surface.

Stiles shook his head as the old woman advanced towards him with a tattoo gun.

He struggled away from her, pulling at all of his wounds and not bothering to wince at the pain. He knew what they were about to do. They were about to carve a rune on his chest, one that would bind him to their will, one that glared blindingly at him whenever he opened one of Deaton's books. The circle with the two moons on either side facing outwards.

The ink in the gun was blood red, obviously Calavera blood. Stiles knew it would bring out his darker side, that power that had been rushing through his veins, that had surged at the cuts and the burns, that he had only barely managed to keep at bay.

_Cora?_

_What is it? What's happening? Derek said you-_

_They're going to do it._

Araya wiped at the blood on Stiles' chest, dodging the saliva as he spat in her face.

_You need to talk to Deaton, you need to find a way to stop me, okay? Because they'll set me on you all first, to test me. I can't stop it, Cora._

_Stiles, just hang on-_

_No, I can't. Look after him. Don't let him close up again._

_Stiles, keep talking to me, okay?_

_Okay._

Araya set the needle on Stiles' skin, right over the triskele, and the familiar buzz filled the air. Stiles could feel it draw on his magic, feel his magic sigh in relief and giddiness, _because it was finally happening, and he had waited so long for it._ He stopped struggling and fighting.

_It's just, when I came back, I found a broken shell of the brother I once knew. And then you two got together, and I started to see glimpses of the teenage boy I remembered, and the man I always believed he would become. And now it's going to be taken from him._

_Cora..._

_Stiles? Keep talking to me._

Stiles could feel it, taking over slowly, impatiently. A side of him he always tried to repress, that had only peeked through the cracks once, when he had killed Jezebel. It scared him, and it was coming back, blurring the lines and taking apart the wall he had built brick by brick.

_Cora, I have to cut it off._

_Stiles, no! Keep talking to me!_

Stiles ignored her and focused on keeping as much of himself as possible, under the pressure of the needle, to do this one thing.

_Keep him safe, Cora. And my Dad. All of them. Keep them safe from me._

And he cut off the connection completely, like he should've done as soon as he had made it.

Stiles was utterly alone, and he loved it.

 

Derek was talking with Chris about the hunters in Oregon when he felt it. A complete loss, a cut connection, a choked cry from Cora in the other room.

He grabbed the operating table with both hands, not caring if the metal buckled under his grip, and focused on Stiles. But Stiles wasn't there. There was an empty space where he should be, which reminded him too much of Erica, Boyd, the twins.

Cora appeared in the dooorway, tears streaming down her face. She shook her head a few times. “He... h-he cut the connection.”

Derek almost sagged in relief, because Stiles was still alive, but Cora's next words shocked him to the core and left him breathless.

“He gave in. He gave in! He just gave up, he stopped fighting, why did he do that?” She was shouting, and she looked broken and fragile, and Derek threw his arms around her instinctively.

Her body shook with sobs, and they both clutched each other as if they were never going to let go, and he didn't want to. Because his brain was still processing the fact that _Stiles gave in_.

Derek had read a few of Stiles' books since he'd been taken, and they did nothing to soothe his worry. They taunted him with sentences and passages about how Stiles was dark, Stiles was evil now, Stiles killed for the love of killing, for the power it brought him, and he was almost unstoppable.

Deaton cleared his throat, and he and Chris stood there, watching Cora and Derek with pitying looks. Derek straightened. “What do we do now?” he asked, but it came out more like a plea, broken and desperate. Wasn't he, though?

Deaton looked down at the map, but it was Chris who spoke, his voice hard and angry. “Now, we go to Oregon, we interrogate the hunters there, and we save him.”

“He can't be saved,” Cora rasped out, her hands still clutching Derek's jacket, her tears stopped but her sobs breaking her sentence. She must've been talking to Stiles before it happened, she must've heard what he was thinking.

Deaton shook his head. “There's something we can do. If it doesn't kill him, it will save him.”

“What is it?” Derek asked him impatiently, his eyes flashing red. He was struggling to hold back his wolf in the shock of emptiness. Losing a member of your pack was like losing a limb, he had heard his mother say once. And he had lost so much pack, he wasn't sure if he could handle losing Stiles. Stiles, who was so much more than _just pack_.

Deaton gave him a hard look. “You have to stab him.”

Cora snarled, instantly angered. “No. No way. That'll kill him! He's not a wolf, he doesn't heal as fast!”

Deaton nodded. “Stiles' powers are exceptionally strong now. His healing abilities are as good as yours, if not slightly better.”

“So... just like that? We just stab him, and he's back?” Derek asked doubtfully.

Deaton walked over to his cupboard and started looking through his jars. “No,” he replied distractedly. “We need a _vajra_. It's a knife that druids use for dark rituals, and breaking them. What the Calaveras do to Flames is a dark ritual, which always require a sacrifice to be broken.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” Chris asked, frowning at Deaton while he took out jars and replaced them.

Deaton turned back to them with a comforting look. “Nothing as dramatic as you might assume. The _vajra_ would draw out that extra spark that makes Stiles a Flame, that connects him to the dark side.”

Derek frowned. There had to be a catch, there had to be some sort of sick compromise. No way was Derek going to get the man he loved back so easily. Life didn't work out that way for Derek Hale.

Deaton caught Derek's look. “But it won't break the hold the Calaveras have on him. He'll be too weak to be of any use, but he'll still be bound to their will.”

Cora wiped her tears away and straightened. “So we kill them,” she stated coldly.


	4. The Devil You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I understand that, because of season 3b, there's a lot of high expectations for dark Stiles, and I'm afraid I probably didn't meet them :/ but I did like this chapter, regardless :D

“ _There's such thing as a door, you know,” Stiles mumbled from his desk, too immersed in the web page about escapism themes in classical novels to check who had just opened his window._

“ _But that wouldn't be any fun,” Erica trilled in a fake-pout, climbing through and flopping on Stiles' bed._

_Stiles twisted around to look at her. “I'm going to talk to your Alpha about this. There will be words. Words will be exchanged in a shouting manner.”_

_Erica tossed her hair and flashed Stiles a winning smile. “Please. You and him will end up in a super-hot make out session, and all will be forgotten. Besides, it's not like he doesn't use the window as well.”_

_Stiles hummed in agreement. “So, what are you doing here?”_

_Her face fell into a serious expression. “I'm so sorry, Stiles.”_

_Stiles raised his eyebrows. “For what?”_

_Erica sighed and tapped her foot. “For this. You're dreaming, you know.”_

_Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, and shivered as the room's temperature dropped. “What do you mean?”_

“ _I mean, I'm dead,” she pointed out._

“ _I know,” Stiles replied, frowning. “That's weird. Why is that weird?”_

“ _Because dead girls don't show up in your bed, Stilinski.” Erica rolled her eyes. “So you're obviously dreaming.”_

_Stiles tilted his head, considering the idea. “So you're not real?”_

“ _That depends on if you're ready to open your mind to the idea of ghosts.” She waggled her fingers and laughed._

_Stiles felt a sick sensation spread through his stomach. “Something's wrong.”_

_Erica gave him a sad smile. “You gave in, Stiles. That guy who is in control of your body, he's not you. Well, he is, but he's like... your evil twin.”_

“ _Oh god,” Stiles whispered, the memories coming back to him. The colours in the room dimmed substantially._

_Erica held out a hand. “Don't panic, Stiles. There's still hope.”_

_Stiles cradled his head in his hands. “No, there isn't. There can't be.”_

_Erica tutted. “Jesus, Stiles, where is your optimism?”_

“ _I'm not the optimistic kind of guy,” Stiles mumbled._

“ _Well, stop freaking out and listen to me. You can break the hold those Mexican mafia shits have over you.”_

“ _Why should I believe you? This is just a dream.”_

“ _I'm a manifestation of your conscience, Stiles. You read those books, you know what to do.”_

_Stiles tried to remember, tried to focus on what she was talking about, but the hint of an idea kept scuttling away from him. “No, I don't.”_

_Erica groaned. “Am I going to have to spell it out for you? An_ anchor _, you moron. You need an anchor.”_

_Stiles lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were golden and fierce, sparkling with amusement. “I don't have an anchor. I've never needed an anchor.”_

_Erica grinned. “What does Stiles Stilinski value above everything else?”_

“ _My dad,” Stiles replied automatically._

_Erica stood up. “Hallelujah! He got it. Your anchor is your loved ones. Your dad, Scott, Derek, Cora.”_

“ _So what, I just have to think about them and I'm free?”_

“ _I can't give you all the details, Stiles. It's obviously not going to be that easy. You're going to have to gain control of your mind for at least a split second, and that's going to be tricky. But, this is where I get off.”_

_Stiles stood and reached for her, but his hand didn't seem to want to come into contact with her arm. It hovered above it._

_Erica smiled down at it and then at Stiles. “You're my batman, you know that? You tell Derek I'm sorry.” Erica opened his door and bounded out, her light footsteps thudding down the stairs._

 

Cora eyed the arrow notched in Allison's bow, pointing at Derek. Derek stayed still and silent, but every few moments, he'd tilt his head and growl, or his eyes would flash.

Allison tensed whenever that happened, but Cora was sure that she wouldn't have it in her to actually shoot the arrow. Still, it was a comfort, since if Allison wasn't there, Derek would've charged out of the office and ripped the hunters to shreds.

Once Chris came out, as emotionless as ever, Allison lowered her bow and let out a breath of relief. Derek nodded in her direction.

Chris made his way towards them, but before he could say anything, C ora spoke.

“Where is he? Did they know?”

Chris nodded, the hint of a triumphant smile on his lips. “He's sixty miles out from Roseburg.” He rubbed his hand, and Cora noticed how red his knuckles were. It must've been a very persuasive negotiation.

Derek's expression didn't change. Still stony and blank, but Cora could smell the worry and hesitant hope pouring from him. She gave his arm a comforting squeeze, remembering Stiles telling her to keep her brother safe. Like she needed telling.

“Can we get an exact location?” Derek asked, his voice quiet.

Chris reached into his pocket and took out a map. He laid it on the desk, and pointed at the red cross off to the side. “There. We can get there before nightfall.”

Cora traced the route they would take with her finger. “Okay. What's the plan?”

Chris looked to Allison, who stepped forward and rested her bow on the table. “We'll need electromagnets to cut off any surveillance feeds they would have going. You, Derek, Isaac, and Scott can grab their attention. Dad, the sheriff, and I will be out of sight, but covering you. When they come out, you fight to disarm, not kill.” She very pointedly looked at Cora, who just shrugged.

Chris nodded at her with a small smile of pride, and then glanced back at Derek. “They're more likely to hide behind Stiles, if Stiles in under their control. You need to keep your head clear, Derek. He's dangerous and not himself, so don't delude yourself with fantasies that he's awake in there.”

Derek tensed, and met Chris' gaze evenly. “I know what I'm getting into.”

Allison frowned. “So, who's going to... uh, who's going to stab him?” She winced at the word _stab_.

“I will,” someone spoke from behind them. Cora spun around to see Isaac in the doorway, Scott next to him.

Scott's eyes widened. “You?”

Isaac nodded. “You're all too close to him, except maybe Argent.”

“You're close to him too, Isaac,” Allison said gently.

Isaac looked away for a second. “Not as much. And besides,” he added, flashing a hesitant grin, “I'm the fastest.”

Derek and Scott both looked like they were about to argue, but Chris and Allison gave each other contemplative looks.

Cora studied Isaac for a few seconds. “Okay,” she murmured. “That makes sense.”

Derek glanced up at her, but she held his glare with one of her own. “Derek, he's right. You wouldn't be able to do it, I sure as hell won't. Scott's about as harmless as a puppy, and the humans are too slow.”

Scott frowned at her, but didn't say anything.

There was a brief moment of silence, and everyone stared at Derek. It was his decision, he was the Alpha. Stiles was _his_ Emissary.

“Fine,” he said reluctantly, through gritted teeth. “Isaac can do it.”

Isaac nodded solemnly and looked over the map. “Have you thought about when we get him back?”

“What?” Scott choked out. Cora was just as caught off guard. They'd just been focusing on getting him back, not daring to think further than that.

“What is Stiles going to be like when we get him back?” Isaac asked, his blue eyes scanning across everyone in the room. “He's been beaten and tortured. You can't... you just can't expect it to be the same Stiles, that's all I'm saying.”

Cora remembered Stiles mentioning something about how Isaac had an abusive father who beat him and locked him in a freezer. So of course he would have an idea of what Stiles was going through.

Derek dragged a hand across his face. “We'll... we'll deal with that after. I just... we just need him back.”

Isaac nodded, and Scott came up behind him, touching the back of his neck briefly, in an Alpha-like gesture. “We've got the _vajra_.” He reached into the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder and took out the most ridiculous thing Cora had ever seen.

It was a knife, sure, but the hilt bulbed out in a golden globe at the bottom. The blade was straight and sharp, stained red with what smelled like some sort of berry juice. Apart from the weird bulbous hilt thing, it looked like a normal knife.

Isaac took it from his Alpha's hands and twirled it around.

Derek frowned. “That looks ridiculous.” Cora snorted in agreement.

Scott shrugged. “He just said to stab Stiles in the tattoo, and it'll take his extra spark. He'll pass out for a bit, but when he wakes, the only thing different about him would be-”

“-that he's the Calaveras' pet,” Cora finished, glaring at the knife as if it was the knife's fault. It would be worse, Stiles being himself while being ordered to kill them.

Scott took the _vajra_ back and stuffed it in the bag, zipping it up and looking at Derek. “Road trip?”

 

The last time Derek had been in a car with Isaac and Scott, Stiles was bleeding out from a gash in his chest and snarking with Isaac and Aiden. This time, Derek had nothing to distract him from his thoughts but the radio, and the music was shit.

Stiles should've been in the front seat, his legs crossed at the ankles and resting on the dashboard until Derek shoved them off, joking about Derek's “granny driving” and shouting the lyrics to whatever song they were listening to.

Derek kept up with the car in front of them, which had Chris, Allison, and Lydia in it, and carefully watched the sheriff's cruiser behind him. Cora was in the front seat, just as quiet as him.

Isaac was asleep, his head in Scott's lap as Scott brushed through his curls with his fingers. Derek tried to ignore them.

They'd been driving for over an hour when Chris finally turned down a dirt road, and Scott nudged Isaac's head until he woke up, wiping drool from his cheek.

Chris would stop every few miles and Allison would chuck a duffel bag out the window, which Derek knew contained the electromagnets she had been talking about. Even as the sky darkened and the trees cast shadows in his visions, Derek could spot the cameras set up in the trees.

The closer they got to Stiles, the heavier the tension became in the car. Derek felt his claws lengthening, and struggled to keep them at bay, tightening his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

The car in front of them stopped, and Chris, Allison, and Lydia stepped out. Lydia was the only one without a weapon. Derek wasn't happy about bringing her with the, because she was the most defenceless of them all, but she snapped at him and glared at him until he caved. He could definitely see the appeal, why Stiles had liked her for so long.

Cora lifted her head up subtly, opening her mouth slightly. Scenting the air. Her head snapped to Derek suddenly, her eyes bright yellow. “Smell him?”

Derek copied her, and Isaac and Scott followed. He ignored earthly smell of the forest and it's feral inhabitants, and zeroed in on the unmistakable scent of gun powder and beyond that, the acrid stench of nightshade mixed with coffee and old books.

“That's him, isn't it? That smell?” Scott asked.

Derek nodded, too disturbed to answer properly. Because the hint of Stiles' scent mixed with nightshade was disconcerting and just... _wrong_.

 

Stiles knew they'd arrived before Tybalt and Smeagol did.

His power tingled the closer they became, and it was half an hour before Tybalt and Smeagol had realised that their cameras had been looped.

Stiles was rearing for a fight, for a chance to use his power since they'd brought him that whimpering, pathetic omega. He tore it apart in seconds, and passed their “obedience test”.

He could sense them. Three humans, four wolves, two of which were Alphas. His memory supplied the names. Scott and Derek.

Stiles grinned when he saw them break the treeline, four wolves wolfed out and cautious. He could almost taste their conflicting emotions. Relief, then anger, and fear. A lot of fear. Horror.

Stiles held out his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, I don't want any trouble. So, if you could just, you know, stand there and let me kill you, we'd save a lot of effort and pain.” He grinned wider. “Well, maybe not pain.”

“Kill them,” Tybalt ordered from the porch. Stiles felt the weight of the command and ducked his head in a show of obedience, then turned back to the wolves.

Scott snarled and charged forward at the hunters, so Stiles went for him first. He intercepted him before he ripped Smeagol's throat out, and slammed him down into the ground by the neck.

Stiles noted, in the back of his mind, his masters opening fire on the others, but he focused on the Alpha struggling against him.

Stiles smiled down at him and tightened his grip to lift Scott back up, his feet kicking out into open air.

“Stiles,” he choked out. “This isn't you.”

Stiles wasn't interested in bantering with his prey, so he threw Scott at Cora, who was leaping at the hunters behind him. They both went down in a mess of limbs, and Stiles would've drained their bodies of blood then and there, but then Derek charged him.

Stiles was caught off guard for a second, because he was the first one to actually go for him, but when Derek tried to twist behind him, he came to his senses. Stiles twisted around before Derek could grab his arms, and caught him in a head-lock and flipped him onto his back. He pinned Derek by the chest and smirked. He felt the pull of Derek's pulse, and he drew on it.

Derek gasped, and his face shifted back to human, his eyes glinting red. “Stiles,” he gasped. “Don't-”

“I'm going to kill you,” Stiles told him. “And your sister. And Scott and Isaac. Everyone. You see, Derek, you were too late to save me. It's your fault I'm like this.” Derek wasn't going to last another thirty seconds. Cora snarled from behind Stiles, and he thrust a hand out without looking, hearing her strangled yelp and smelling her blood. Stiles leaned in close to Derek's face. “So I suppose I should thank you, huh? For all this power.”

Derek squirmed, his eyes fading back to green. His strength was waning as Stiles drained his energy from him. “Stiles, this isn't you. You have to... fight it. Fight it.”

Stiles tutted and let his eyes flicker to black. “You brought everyone to their death. Should've just let me go.”

He heard the bullet whizz through the air, but he did nothing to block it as it slammed into his chest. Bullets were harmless.

Stiles looked up in the direction of the shooter and met the sheriff's eyes.

Stiles let go of Derek and straightened. “Dad. You shouldn't be here.” _Kill him kill him kill him._

His father met his gaze with a look of steel, even as Stiles could see the panic in them. His gun didn't shake, even pointed to Stiles chest. _Kill him._

“Stiles, step away from Derek,” the sheriff ordered.

Stiles felt the breath leave him. His power was scratching to be let out, and here was a threat, right in front of him, pointing a gun at him. Stiles could drain him of blood, snap his neck, cut off the air to his lungs, force him to shoot himself. All of these things were within his power. _Kill him._

Stiles looked back down at Derek, who was still conscious and staring up at him with an unreadable expression. Derek shouldn't have brought him here.

Derek stumbled to his feet, and Stiles threw a punch. It connected with Derek's nose, but he barely swayed. _Kill him._

“They ordered me to kill everyone!” Stiles shouted, grabbing Derek by the shoulder and punching him again. Derek didn't move, or struggle. “And you brought my _dad!_ ” He felt his hand connect with bone, felt the flare of pain. “How could you?” He dropped Derek abruptly, staring down at him, his breath coming out in hurried pants. “How could you?”

He looked down at Derek's bloodied face, and felt the urge to kill, because that was his order. He had been ordered to kill everyone, so he'd start with Derek, then his father, then Cora. _Kill them all._

Stiles reached up to touch his face and his fingers came away wet. The sounds of gunfire and snarling muffled, and Stiles stared at his hands. His hands. They had blood on them. He had blood on his hands. Why did he have blood on his hands? _Shut up, don't ask questions, kill them kill them kill them._

He looked up when he felt a hand on his shoulder, to meet Isaac's pained eyes. There was a bullet wound in his side which was leaking out blue smoke, and blood on _his_ hands as well.

And then a knife slid between his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one more chapter, maybe an epilogue. Maybe. But the holidays are over for me, so I'm not sure how I'm going to manage time. Probably really horribly, knowing me.


	5. Magic And Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title by The Summation or something. Whoa. Mega writer's block, there. Sorry about that, but here you go. The end. Spoiler: It's happy.

Derek watched as Stiles' eyes flickered from black to hazel to black again, looking down at the blade buried in his chest with a detached kind of shock, grunting and gasping at the pain as if he couldn't catch a breath. He fell to his knees, swaying a little, and Isaac stepped back, looking like he was going to be sick.

Derek lurched forward to grab Stiles before he fell to the ground, supporting him with his hands clenched in Stiles' shirt. Stiles leaned against him, his breath coming out in ragged pants against Derek's neck. Derek pulled back and pressed a hand against the wound, his hand coming away slick with blood.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, shaking him a little. Stiles' eyes focused on him for a brief moment. “Stiles, hey, _hey_. It's not that bad, okay?” Derek brushed a hand across Stiles' face, even as his eyes began to flutter shut. “ _Stiles!_ Stay with me, okay? It's not that bad, you just need to heal, just stay with me, Stiles.”

Stiles took a shallow, shuddering breath and met Derek's eyes with a weak, reassuring grin. “Der...” His breath ran out, and the grin faded as his eyes closed.

“No, no, no, no, Stiles, come on, Stiles, stay with me, Stiles.” Derek pleaded, even as Stiles' head lolled forward, resting in the crook of Derek's neck. “Don't leave me, you can't leave me, not now. I just found you.” Stiles was a heavy weight in Derek's arms, too heavy.

It wasn't meant to happen like this. Derek wasn't meant to get hurt like this again, lose someone like this. Stiles was supposed to be a grounding constant, he was the one who held Derek up, not the other way around. Stiles was the one who was meant to stay with him, when everyone else left. Stiles snarked and he fought, and he was so loyal that it always left Derek half-breathless when he wondered how he had deserved Stiles' loyalty. Stiles understood just how much family meant to Derek, because it meant just as much to him. Derek didn't deserve him but he couldn't lose him.

Derek buried his nose in Stiles' hair. “Oh god, no. Stiles, no, no, you can't...” The rest of his sentence got choked on a sob, and Derek heard the beating of Stiles' heart falter. Then stop.

Derek tried to pull in a breath, but it hitched in his throat, and Stiles wasn't moving, Stiles was heavy, Stiles wasn't talking, wasn't moving, wasn't breathing. His skin was warm through the fabric of the clothing, and his hair was soft, just like it always was, but _Stiles wasn't moving_.

And then Derek heard it. Almost imperceptible, even to his hearing. One thump. A beat.

Derek pulled away and grabbed Stiles' face, one hand resting on his neck. The jump of a pulse, faint, but growing stronger, faster, more steady.

A breath escaped Stiles' mouth, and then he gasped, his eyes snapping open, panicked and wide. His arms flailed around in Derek's hold, and Derek was forced to let him down as he scrambled backwards.

Stiles eyes flitted around the crowd that Derek hadn't noticed gathering. The hunters were lying motionless on the ground, ignored by everyone as they stared at Stiles. Cora had a hand pressed to her mouth, tears leaking freely from her eyes. Isaac still looked like he was going to throw up, but he let out a startled and near hysterical chuckle, which died as abruptly as it had started. Scott was inching towards Stiles slowly, reaching a hesitant hand out, and Allison's eyes were shining with unshed tears. The sheriff stood in front of Stiles, looking like he'd been hit by a bus, overwhelmed by emotion.

Stiles looked up at him. “Dad?” His voice cracked and his heartbeat stuttered.

The sheriff knelt down and pulled his son into a hug, and Derek knew he should look away, because it was a private moment between a man who had almost lost his son and said son, but Stiles was _alive_ , Stiles' heart was beating and he was talking, and Derek didn't find it in him to care about anything else in that moment.

Stiles pulled away shakily and got to his feet, looking like a cornered animal, his eyes never resting on anyone's face for long.

Derek stood up slowly, feeling as if the whole world was spinning around him, and Stiles was the only stable thing he could focus on. He didn't care that Stiles was most likely furious at him for bringing his father, though he had every right to. He didn't care that Stiles, being Stiles, was probably riddled with guilt, and scared to death. Derek stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Stiles, dropping his head to breathe in the scent that pulsed through his veins. There was no trace of nightshade, just pure Stiles.

 

Stiles could cross dying off his bucket list.

He remembered, numbly, Derek holding him up, the utterly broken look on his face, tears forming in those gorgeous green eyes. That's what hurt the most about dying, having to leave people behind. Derek had already lost so much, he didn't deserve someone else dying in his arms, someone else abandoning him.

Stiles had tried to smile at him, to tell him it was okay, that Stiles preferred it to killing them all, to killing _him_ , but the darkness was crowding his vision, depriving him of the sight of Derek, which had annoyed him briefly.

He didn't remember much after that, until he woke up. No white light, no out-of-body experience, no undead ferryman. He just felt himself drain away, slowly, with the blood that was staining his shirt. And then a shock, like an electric shock, and he was pulled back, his lungs empty and greedy for air, his knife wound fading into a pleasant buzz. Derek's arms were still around him, his body shaking with unbidden sobs, but Stiles' body went into fight-or-flight mode. He pulled away and controlled his breathing, sure he was about to have a panic attack.

Everyone was crowding around him, and Stiles didn't want to read too much into their expressions, to find the fear and the anger and rejection that he deserved. Derek was right in front of him, holding his hands in the air as if he were still clutching Stiles' body, looking so completely open and vulnerable that Stiles had to look away so he wouldn't witness the moment that Derek characteristically closed up again.

And then his father was there, kneeling beside him, pulling him into a stabilising hug, and Stiles gave into it. If he had nothing at all, his dad would always still be there with a gruff scolding to disguise his worry and relief and a fatherly hug that he needed as much as Stiles did.

When he finally stood, he felt the urge to run away again. To turn and sprint away, into the trees, away from his friends, the people he had nearly killed. Cora was clutching a large gash across her stomach that Stiles knew he had put there. Derek's face was covered in blood from the punches that he had received from Stiles. _Stiles_ had done that, _Stiles_ had attacked them, and he had no doubt that if it weren't for his father, he would have slaughtered them all without hesitation.

Derek stood up, and Stiles couldn't look away, because Derek wasn't closing up like he usually did, his face was still heart-breakingly filled with emotion. He strode towards Stiles, and Stiles flinched back, sure he was going to shout at him, maybe shove him, even punch him, because Stiles deserved it, he needed it, after what he nearly did to them.

But his arms pulled Stiles into a bone-crushing embrace, and Stiles sunk into it automatically, instinctively, curling into Derek and the familiar feel of his muscles, his breath on Stiles' neck, his large hands fisting in the back of Stiles' shirt.

Stiles breathed out a laugh, but it came out as a sob, and then he couldn't stop. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped Derek. No tears came, just gut-wrenching sobs that pulled at his stomach painfully.

Derek pulled away first, but kept his hands curled around Stiles' shoulders, his eyes flitting over Stiles' face as if committing every mole, dip, and freckle to memory, like Stiles often caught him doing when he woke up in the mornings.

“I thought I lost you, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice achingly young. “I heard your heartbeat stop.”

Stiles gave him a tiny, forced smile, grabbed his hand, and pressed it against where the knife had pierced the skin, where his heart pumped blood through his body steadily, as if it had never stopped and had no immediate plans to stop.

And then he was tackled from the side from what felt like a giant grizzly. He panicked for half a second before laughing, a genuinely happy laugh that only Scott McCall could coax out of him.

Chris, Cora, and Derek had cleared the house by the time Scott had let go of Stiles, and when they came back from the basement, Chris' jaw was clenched, Cora's eyes were filled with unshed tears, and Derek looked furious. Stiles knew what was down there. Blood, too much of it, and all of it his. A few fingernails, maybe one or two teeth, and the lasting emotional imprint of the terror and pain Stiles had been through. He shuddered at the memory of it, and pushed it down before he could think too much about it.

Cora grabbed his arms and pushed his shirt up, and Stiles would've protested, but he was too tired to do much of anything. Her smooth hands trailed up his ribs and chest, steering clear of the blood that surrounded the knife wound. Stiles touched the raised, pink skin. It had healed over enough that he wasn't in danger of dying again, so that the bleeding had stopped, but Stiles had been accustomed to his wounds healing almost as soon as possible. He felt like this was a permanent scar, and the though made the world around him spin with uncertainty. A permanent scar. An everlasting reminder.

Cora's hands were shoved away, and replaced with larger, warmer ones. Derek pulled the shirt back down, his eyes stormy and bordering on homicidal when his hand brushed over Stiles' scar.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered brokenly, the first thing he had said since his heart had started beating again. He could feel his eyes welling up with tears, and there were no words, but he tried anyway. “I'm sorry.” He hated those three syllables, because they were outrageously inadequate, but he repeated them over and over in vulnerable gasps, as if the quantity would boost the quality.

Derek brushed a thumb under his eyes, wiping away the tear. “Don't. Don't apologise. It wasn't your fault, you know that,” he said softly.

Stiles shook his head. “I... I was going to-”

“ _Stiles_. Just, stop.” It was more of a plea than anything.

Stiles nodded and buried his head in Derek's shoulder. “I want to go home.”

 

Stiles woke up with an ache in his chest and a hollow, painfully-abstract feeling hovering over him.

He was in Derek's bed. He knew that because he was well-acquainted with Derek's bed to the point that he'd had to bite his tongue from calling it theirs.

Derek was a solid presence beside him, one arm wrapping around Stiles' torso and one resting on his hip. He was snuffling in the crook of Stiles' neck, which Stiles had always found unbearably endearing. Most guys snore, but Derek Hale _snuffles_.

The room was dark, but a sliver of pale, dull light from a gap in the curtains told Stiles it was nearing dawn.

And then he panicked for a moment, because he'd completely lost track of time. He had no idea what day it was, what _month_ it was. He stomped on the panic before it could wake Derek.

He reached for the nightstand, and after a few moments of blind groping, because his eyes were still too bleary with sleep, his hand wrapped around a cool rectangle. Derek's lock screen lit up to a picture of Stiles with his tongue poking out and a pale line of frothed milk lining his top lip. Scott was in the background with ridiculous crossed-eyes, and Derek stood behind them with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

Stiles let himself smile at the memory. Scott had dragged Derek and Stiles out for a coffee, interrupting their week-long sex binge (because, despite tooth-rotting love confessions, Derek wanted to take their relationship slow, so it had been six weeks before they had sex, and Stiles made the most of it). Stiles had stolen Derek's phone when he wasn't looking, and then took a bunch of goofy pictures of him and Scott when Derek had been preoccupied with paying for the coffees. Stiles had set that one as his lock screen, and Derek claimed he didn't know how to change it, but Stiles knew he loved the picture.

It was four in the morning, and Stiles was proud of the fact that his four-am, coffee-less brain managed to click in to the fact that it was three days away from their anniversary. And that he'd spent four days with... four days away.

Derek shifted his head, burying it deeper in Stiles' neck, and let out a low, sleepy growl that vibrated through Stiles' whole body.

Derek woke up slowly, like he usually did, his muscles tensing slightly and his breathing quickening. He pulled Stiles closer to his chest, like he did every time they woke up together, and Stiles was 200% sure that they were going to have a situation on their hands if Derek didn't wake up soon.

So Stiles pushed away from Derek, prodding his bicep with his index finger.

“Mnngghh,” Derek complained, blinking slowly.

“Derek, come on. Wake your ugly ass up.”

Green eyes caught him in a stare-off, full of awe and happiness and disbelief. Derek gave him one of his tiny smiles that always left Stiles short of breath.

“You're here,” he breathed.

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “What did you think you were cuddling?” Derek dropped his face to the pillow to hide a grin. “No, I'm serious, Derek, I need to know if you're cheating on me or something. _Derek_.”

Derek grabbed the back of Stiles' neck and lifted his face to kiss him, his lips gentle and slow, taking his time like he was trying to memorise Stiles' mouth.

Stiles grinned and pulled away. “You're deflecting.”

Derek snorted and buried his face in Stiles' shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Stiles,” he mumbled.

“I can't,” Stiles whined. “I'm hungry.” The tension in the room thickened as they both remembered exactly why he was hungry.

“Stiles,” Derek started cautiously. “When was the last time you ate?”

Stiles swallowed down the lump in his throat. “There, uh, there was that soup you made me.”

Derek swore and he rolled off Stiles. “That was a week ago.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. He cleared his throat. “Pancakes?”

Derek got out of bed and pulled Stiles up, resting his hands on Stiles' shoulders. He wrinkled his nose. “Take a shower first. And be quiet. Your dad and Isaac are downstairs.”

Stiles gave him a pat on the cheek. “I like blueberries on mine,” he reminded Derek.

He spent too much time in the shower, he knew that, but Stiles couldn't stop thinking about how he smelled. Since Scott had sniffed out the gum in Stiles' pocket, he had been conscious of his scent. Even more so when Scott had told him he could smell most emotions. So he imagined that he smelled pretty horrible. Like pain, blood, sweat, terror, and just about every single negative emotion in the book.

Stiles tip-toed downstairs to find Isaac hunched over a cup of coffee, his head in his hands, and Derek leaning towards him, talking in a gentle whisper. His father was passed out on the couch, but Stiles couldn't really fault him. Stiles picked it out himself, and fallen asleep on it too many times to count.

Isaac's head whipped around to meet Stiles' gaze, and his face was so open and hesitant, that Stiles took a step towards him immediately.

Isaac slammed into him with a hug, and Stiles grunted with the force of it, because he was still pretty weak, but clung on to Isaac when he tried to pull away.

“I'm so sorry, Stiles, I-”

Stiles pushed Isaac off him gently and held him at arms length. “Isaac, you idiot, shut the hell up.” Isaac shut his mouth with a pained expression. “You saved everyone,” Stiles continued softly. He grinned. “You're the hero of the day. I'm going to get you a medal and a trophy and everything. We'll have a big party thrown in your honour, with strippers and booze and cake.”

Isaac still looked uncertain, and Stiles looked over at his shoulder to Derek, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and a faint smile playing on his lips.

Stiles looked back at Isaac. “I didn't die. I'm fine, I'm alive, everyone is alive.” He let go of the beta and walked past him. “And I'm starving.”

It was halfway through their pancakes before Stiles mustered the courage to ask, “So what happened to the hunters?”

Derek tilted his head and clenched his jaw subtly. “Your father arrested them for kidnapping and possession of illegal firearms.”

Stiles nodded, thinking it was unfair that he had to heal away the only proof that could've gotten them convicted for... everything else. But he kept his mouth shut, because he just wanted to forget everything, and bringing it up, letting it live beyond his thoughts, was not the recipe to forgetting.

Yeah. Stiles was pretty good at ignoring his problems.

Once Isaac had left, Stiles was wide awake and watching Derek wash the dishes.

It was weird, because he could still feel the background hum of the pack-bond, which told him Cora was in a deep, content sleep and Derek was worrying.

Derek spun around and flicked Stiles with warm soapy water. Stiles jerked back and glared at him. “What the hell, Derek?”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Talk to me,” he said, drying his hands and giving Stiles a soft look. “What's wrong?”

Stiles looked down to his mug, swirling the coffee around. He shook his head and tried to make sense of his thoughts, because Derek deserved to know what Stiles' was thinking, after what Stiles had put him through.

Derek reached across the counter and hooked a finger under Stiles' chin, pushing it up gently. “Hey, stop it. Stop with the guilt.”

Stiles closed his eyes and swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Derek,” he started, stifling down the need to lean into Derek's hand. “I can't do this.”

“What do you mean?” Derek asked gently, his thumb brushing Stiles' cheek.

“I can't do _this_.” Stiles opened his eyes and gave Derek a challenging look. “I can't just fall back into my life, into the life I had before, with you. Not with this... with this _thing_ hanging over me.”

Derek stilled, his impressive eyebrows pulling together in his adorable Stiles-stop-confusing-me look, but he didn't say anything.

Stiles pulled away from his hand. “They took me because of what was inside me, what I was born with. They used it to- I almost killed you, Derek! Another ten seconds and you would be dead!” Stiles knew he was raising his voice, and that every word was getting through to Derek, even though his face was blank and expressionless, like it always was when they fought.

But, goddammit, this wasn't a fight, this was a break-up.

“And yeah, Isaac got rid of it, that disease inside me, but do you know what? When I was draining you of life, I wasn't going to stop. I was enjoying it, like some kind of sick rush! And what if that didn't go, Derek? I can still feel it inside me, like an echo, and what if it's enough? What if I just wake up one morning, and I'm _him_? And I decide, oh, let's just kill all of my friends and family, because it makes me feel powerful and stable and complete? What if I'm lying next to you in bed, and-” Stiles cut off abruptly, not wanting to fuel a panic attack, not when he was in the middle of what felt like a crossroads in his life.

He looked down at his feet, not remembering when exactly he had stood up in his rant, and then met Derek's eyes again. “I can't be with you. Not after all this.” And then he looked away before he could see the hurt and pain in Derek's eyes.

So he missed Derek moving until he was right in front of Stiles, grabbing his hand, and pulling him upstairs. Stiles tried to tug away, but Derek's grip was firm. Stiles let himself be led into their bedroom.

Derek pushed Stiles on the bed and turned to open their closet, leaving Stiles working through all that he had said and planning for round two, to convince Derek that this couldn't work, not anymore, and try to hide the lie. Because he knew he _could_ go back to how it was before, he was exceptional at feigning normalcy, but this was about Derek, not him.

And then something soft was thrust into Stiles' hands. He looked down to see that he was clutching a stuffed animal, a comical wolf with a heart stitched onto it's paws, and _I wuff you_ written on it.

Derek raised his eyebrows at Stiles, and crossed his arms.

“I know I don't say much, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice and his posture giving nothing away. He should be angry, or sad, or _something_. Stiles had just broken up with him, for god's sake. “But, for once in your life, stop being an idiot and listen to me.”

Stiles refrained from huffing and scowling, and just nodded, watching Derek warily.

Derek sighed and glanced out the window for a second, before looking back at Stiles. “You're an asshole. You're infuriating, and smug, and too smart and loyal for your own good. You're also a crappy liar. But just now, you were telling the truth. And I know that things aren't going back to normal, but you're asking me to let go of this,” he said, gesturing to the wolf in Stiles' hands. “You bought that for my birthday, along with a terrible lap-dance where you almost broke your ankle.” He picked up a shirt from the floor, shaking his head at it with exasperation, before practically shoving it in Stiles' face. “You leave your clothes everywhere. And last month, when you got drunk with Scott and called me, you told me you do it on purpose, because you wanted to leave your scent in the loft, so I wouldn't feel so alone.”

Stiles' fingers tightened around the wolf, but he couldn't take his eyes off Derek.

Derek knelt in front of Stiles, next to the bed, resting his hands on the wolf. He looked up at Stiles. “You're asking me to give you up because we can't go back to how it was before? Then lets change it.”

Stiles frowned. “Derek-”

“Move in with me.”

Stiles froze. “I... How... _What?_ ”

Derek circled Stiles' wrist with his long fingers. “Move in with me,” he repeated. He let out a short laugh. “You basically live here anyway. You sleep better when I'm with you, you always have. You have a toothbrush, your own coffee mug, and you've claimed the right side of the bed.”

Stiles closed his eyes, trying to block out the hopeful, optimistic look in Derek's eyes. “I can't, Derek. I... I don't want to hurt you,” he whispered.

Derek grabbed his face, and Stiles opened his eyes. “Stiles, there is nothing wrong with you. What you're doing... I've done it. Pushed people away to keep them safe. For the longest time, I thought I was cursed. When you were kidnapped, I almost lost it. But I'm not pushing you away. I almost lost you and I promise, I will _never_ let that happen again.”

Stiles blinked for a second, and tried to hold on to his purpose, his argument, but he felt it slipping away. He curled a hand around Derek's neck and pulled him in, clashing their lips together in a messy, desperate kiss.

And then Stiles smiled, which ended the depth of the kiss. “You're a sappy bastard,” he mumbled against Derek's lips. “But yes. I'll move in with you.”

Derek drew back, his eyes scanning across Stiles' face, and gave him an unrestrained, wide smile. “I love you,” he told Stiles.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “If you're trying to sweet-talk me into sex, you're going to have to try a lot harder than that.” Derek growled and pushed Stiles down on the bed, leaning into his space and covering Stiles' body with his own. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down Stiles' jawline to his neck, and Stiles bit back a moan.

“You could, uh, could wax poetic about the colour of my eyes, or compare me to a summer's day, or- hnnnggg, don't... stop,” Stiles gasped out when Derek nipped lightly at the skin.

Derek drew back and rolled off the bed, pulling Stiles with him.

“What, no, don't stop with the kissing, the kissing is good, I recommend more kissing. I advise, as your Emissary, for more kisses and more sex and-”

“Stiles, your father is downstairs, and he's awake. We're not having sex.”

Stiles deflated, along with his dick, because hey, it had been a week, okay? It didn't take much to get him excited, and his neck was a particularly erogenous area for him.

But, hey, if he lived with Derek, he could get all the sex, all the time.

 

**~Two months later~**

 

“Scott? Dude, awkward time,” Stiles panted down the phone pressed against his ear. He was straddling Derek, and they were so close, _so close_ , to nudity and mutual orgasms.

Derek growled and squirmed, so Stiles got off him and flopped onto his back on the bed.

“ _Oh, uh, gross,_ ” Scott replied, and Stiles could imagine his nose scrunching up. “ _But it's an emergency. I need you, man._ ”

Stiles sighed. “Is it life-or-death?”

“W _ell, since Deaton said you're sort of my Emissary as well-_ ” Derek flashed his eyes red, and Stiles swatted his arm. “ _-I figured, now is the time I need some advice. I need one of your plans, dude._ ”

Twenty minutes later, Stiles was standing next to Scott, staring down at the freshman duct-taped in Scott's bath, glaring at them with defiant and angry eyes.

“That's Liam Dunbar,” Stiles stated, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Scott replied.

“Mmmmf!” Liam said.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Liam Dunbar is in your bathtub.”

“I know.”

“You bit Liam Dunbar.”

“ _I know._ ”

Stiles was quiet for a few more minutes, while Liam struggled to yell profanities at them. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again.

“Your plans suck.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the last in the series of two, and it was pretty difficult, dudes. I had a few setbacks, and then distractions, and then mind-blanks. So, don't be afraid to comment your opinions, because your opinions are precious <3


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